


Edith

by RoweenaJAugustine



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, I am so new to this fandom but I am already so interested, I do not claim to be a historian but I will do my very best, M/M, Past Violence, Past Violence Against Women, Regency Romance, Secret Relationship, i am new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoweenaJAugustine/pseuds/RoweenaJAugustine
Summary: At 26, Edith Granville lives the life of a spinster with her uncle, artist Sir Henry Granville. Shunned from the life of a socialite, though not by her choice, Edith has resigned that she will never marry, never find love, but that changes when her uncle invites Benedict Bridgerton to his studio.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	1. The Carriage Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm excited! this is my first step into another fandom outside of game of thrones. I'm here to see if my work piques an interest and if I should continue.  
> Thank you!
> 
> PS: thank you to my phenomenal friend Darkwolf76 who took time out of her day to help me be comfortable with posting this. She's an amazing writer/story-teller, so I think it's a great idea to check her out.

It started, as all these things start, with a carriage ride.

At nineteen, Edith, daughter of Lord Granville, made her official debut in society after a carriage ride that felt far too fast for her liking. Her mother, Lady Amelia Granville, had chattered the whole ride to the palace, providing little reminders and helpful hints that made her daughter all the more nervous.

How can one _not_ be when presented to the queen?

Seven years later, Edith was not easily riled any longer. At twenty-six, unmarried and with a face that was difficult to look at, she had gotten harder over the years, her skin becoming a thick, steely armor that few could penetrate.

Sadly, one of the few who could worm his way through was sitting across from her.

Her father had always been a distant man, and once or twice she suspected he simply had no idea how to treat a daughter. But while distant, he was not cold, always happy to see her, always complimenting her drawings when she was brave enough to show him. That had stopped once Thomas Haken left his mark on her.

Now, Edie was made to suffer with her father’s silence, the way he would not look at her. He hadn’t properly set his eyes on her face since the physician had showed him the damage. While her mother’s strangled sob still echoed through her ears, the slamming of the doors as her father left her hurt worse.

For as she laid there in her bed, knowing her life was forever changed, neither of them made to soothe her. Embrace her, offer a word of comfort, a hand to hold. Nothing. It was Lucy Granville who crawled into her bed later that night when her sobs echoed down the corridor. 

Her mother grieved the pain of her daughter, and her father grieved the loss of opportunity. Edie resolved many years ago that their reasons did not matter. Neither of them could look at her, so much in fact that after that _first and only_ season had ended, they had left her in London with her uncle.

Again, she resoled not to care. Henry Granville was a delight to be around, and he had been the first to make her smile after the Incident. Indeed, her uncle had been a soothing, gentle balm to her broken heart, and now she could not bear to leave him behind.

Speaking of leaving…

“I beg you reconsider it, Edie.” Lord Granville spoke, still looking out the window to watch London pass by. “You mother has been missing you. Richard and William, too. The country air will be good for you. Country folk are a kinder lot, anyhow.” At the mention of her mother, Edie felt nothing but a distant pang of hurt, one that was soothed over by time and understanding. But mention of her older and younger brothers, Edie found herself gripped with longing.

Richie, the eldest of the three of them, was married now for three years with a pair of boys, much to his pride. Edie had attended his wedding, much to his new bride’s vexation. Richie had sworn to her that his bride, his Agnes, would not change his mind about keeping her close, but Edith was not entirely convinced. Willie, on the other hand, was the youngest and her favorite. Currently, he was still single, but had his eye on a lovely girl named Helen. 

The three of them had always been close, even after the Incident. Eddie promised never to shun her from Granville, and Willie had sworn he would duel any man who insulted her. She was thankful for her brothers, even if time and pain had created a distance.

“When you can look at me and ask, papa, I shall decide to consider it.” She spoke it gently, for although the man across from her had been twisting a knife in her gut for the past seven years, he was her father still. She _wanted_ him to look, _wanted_ him to ask while taking in the damage a madman had caused.

Disappointment should have not tasted so bitter when Lord Granville huffed, and continued to study the outside world.

Her brothers had written now and again about the state of their parents. Whenever mama smiled at a party, or whenever papa would join them for a hunt or a day of fishing at the pond. Sometimes it pained her to know they were so happy without her, but other days she remembered how Richie said papa was quieter now, leaving his estate less and less.

Over the years, anger faded and understanding set in, but that did not take the pain out of knowing the reason for their distance. She was their only surviving daughter, and was ruined to them. They could see little else but the scar on her face. 

“I…I hear you’re becoming quite good at portrait paintings.” Her father complimented after a moment. 

A beat passed. “Yes,” she replied. “I suppose it is fitting that I enjoy portrait paintings most of all.”

Lord Granville bristled. “Do not joke, Edith. Especially about such things. It is unbecoming.” He said the last part more quietly. 

“Well, I need to have something.” She grumbled to herself. “Why not a dark sense of humor?”

Father ignored that. “I am to return to Granville House tomorrow. Should you change you mind, send word beforehand.”

 _I won’t,_ Edie thought. She was already thinking about her next painting. 

Finally, the carriage pulled to a stop. Peeking out, Edie did not grin at the sight of Henry Granville’s home though she was more than relieved to see it.

“Good-day father. Thank you for the tea and cake.” Before he could reply, she stepped out and rushed to the door.

* * *

“How was it?” Her uncle called a moment after hearing the front door slam shut. He heard her groan as he continued to drag his brush across the painting before him.

“Well enough.” She called back, removing her coat and tossing it over a chair. Her uncle was not a immensely wealthy man, and so a footman was not in his employ. However, he did have a cook, a pair housemaids, a scullery maid and a valet. “We had tea in his suite but it wasn’t too painful.” Lord Granville had come from his country estate to London for an important meeting with his banker, and only called upon his daughter for tea the day before he was due to travel back. 

“Was your mama in attendance?” Another soft, gentle stroke of the brush, and the portrait was nearly complete.

“Papa said she had taken ill. He did not wish for her to suffer the travel.” With a soft groan of relief, Edie reached up and carefully undid the necklace that was currently choking her. She didn’t understand the current style. She much preferred her long chained lockets and pendants. Mindful that some of her uncle’s guests could have sticky fingers, she slipped string of blue beads and white pearls into her purse. “Honestly, it is rather a relief.” She admitted, walking into the drawing room of her uncle’s studio. “I had prepared for the stern presence of Lord Granville, not the soft, sad silence of his lady.”

Henry laughed at this, but was quick to stifle it. “Say that five times fast.” Edie smiled back, the deep scar that ran from above her eyebrow, down across her soft cheek, and ending at her lower jaw, just beneath her ear, pulling tight.

She did it freely, and Henry was grateful each and every time she gave him that smile.

He turned back to his work, gesturing carefully with the end of his brush. “What do you think?”

Edie stepped closer to look over his shoulder. It was the portrait of a young woman, she was plump and ruffled looking, a blush running across her cheeks, hair loose. She looked to be a working class woman, a coin glinting in her hand, one of her small breasts exposed. 

“She’s holding a coin, staring right back at the one viewing her.” Edie tilted her head, thoughtful. “She looks sad. Reserved, as though this has been her fate many times before.” Edie grimaced, her mind immediately retreating to the one possibility of why a woman would look so sad to hold a coin just given to her.

Henry drew back, frowning. “I was thinking she looked rather cheeky.”

Edie hummed, turning away. “I suppose it is up to the viewer. Anyway, don’t mind me. I always think the worst.” She hummed, reaching up for her hair.

“But would you call it cold? Lacking of spirit?”

Edie frowned, returning to his side for another look. She tilted her head once more. “No. Rather, I fear I see too much of it to look terribly long. It is an uncomfortable feeling, but one I can control, so I continue to look.” A most curious feeling indeed.

“Worthy of being skied?”

Edie scoffed. “Not at all. Though I cannot say the same for that rather _dour_ portrait of that marquis’s daughter.”

Her uncle laughed aloud once more, setting down his palette and taking up a rag to wipe his hands. “You want to know something amusing?”

“Always.” She replied, still fiddling with her hair, trying to get it out of the complicated array her aunt Lucy had prepared for her. It was not that she did not enjoy her aunt’s attention to her hair, but the tight updos made it difficult to concentrate.

“I was rather pointedly critiqued about that same portrait at Somerset House.”

“Oh.” She hummed, sighing as she finally released her hair, allowing it to fall down her back. “By a worthy eye at least?”

“I should think so. His barbs were so…”

“…pointy?”

“ _Eloquent_.” He said at last, a sly smile tugging his lips.

“Well,” she flopped down on the chaise lounge, kicking her feet up on the footrest with a contented sigh. “Who was this eloquent pointy critique?”

“Benedict Bridgerton.”

Edie grimaced, confused and trying to work out how a Bridgerton earned such praise from her uncle. “Well that’s something you don’t hear everyday. Bridgerton’s are beautiful, worthy of being placed on a mantle or a wall to be admired for all time. I did not think one would have an eye for art that went beyond the surface.” 


	2. The Bridgerton Boy

By the time Friday night came around, Edie had forgotten of the Bridgerton’s.

Instead of thinking of them, or her papa, or her mama, or her brothers or the gossip that surrounded women born to her position, Edith threw herself into the arts.

When she had been considered beautiful, none had paid much mind to her talents. Yes, she was sure a mama or two had urged their sons in her direction by mentioning her talents, but apart from that, she had more value as a beautiful duke’s daughter. She had been a fair violinist, and an excellent artist and poet. But her beauty had outshined all, and once that was taken…well then all her suitors had vanished as well.

It had been more than a year before her uncle had dragged her from the depths of agony and fear. When he could no longer watch her wither into an early death. Henry Granville loved his niece ever since the first moment he held her. And when she came to London at nineteen for her first season, he had housed her and promised his brother to guide and protect her through the season. Her mama had come as well, but Lord Granville was far too busy to make the trip, and so entrusted his brother to weed out the foolish, rakish, and detestable suitors from the promising, wealthy, well landed men.

He had failed. Most horrendously. And neither Lord Granville nor his younger brother could forgive that.

Henry _refused_ to allow his niece waste away. So, instead, he encouraged her. He brought her paints, canvases, sketch pads. He brought her chocolates and coffee and invited her down to his studio everyday for eight months until she finally relented and ventured out of her room. He looked past the hideous scar he felt he bore responsibility for, and smiled at her. And every chance he got, until she believed it, he told her she had talents beyond those of gaining a good husband.

However, a woman raised with such ideals cannot succumb to any others in a single day.

Instead, Edith spent many nights experimenting. Pretending to be someone else, forgetting until some drunken man mentioned it, that her scar was _unforgettable_. In her early twenties, Edith had fooled herself into thinking love was indeed possible with a face like hers. Yes, someone would surely look past it and see the beauty she _had_ been, take her in his arms and kiss her.

She had wept bitter tears when she was told, rather bluntly, that she could not be shown off in public.

Her mama had never told her the way it was between a man and his wife, promising to tell her on her wedding day. However, when it became clear it was not to be, it was aunt Lucy who sat her down and explained the act.

Aunt Lucy had tried her best to be _delicate_ when she told her niece that just because she may never wed, it did not mean she had to live the life of a pious virgin. Too stunned to much else but listen, Edith had learned love did not necessarily make the act pleasurable, and that pleasure could come from any attentive lover. Concluding with her and Henry’s blessing, Lucy warned her to be careful with any future dalliances she might venture into, not wanting her to bring shame to Lord Granville’s good name by falling with child.

Naive as she was, Edie had to learn herself that a willing partner did not mean he loved you.

After one too many times, Edie decided celibacy didn’t sound so terrible.

Rolling her ring around her finger, tilting her head at her sketch, wondering if it warranted a trip into the fire, or a few more well placed lines.

“You tilt anymore, you shall have a very crooked neck, my dear.” Henry said, his charcoal staining his fingers black.

“How else am I supposed to inspect my work?” _Alright_ , she decided, _a trip to the fire it is._

“How can you properly inspect it when it’s tilted sideways?” he countered, a sly grin pulling at his lips.

Edie scoffed, raising her hands in a dainty shrug. “It seems to work well enough.” With that, she tore the paper in half, letting the pieces fall to the floor with the silent promise to feed it to the fire later when she went to bed.

“Perhaps not, if you destroyed a perfectly lovely depiction of Isabelle and Cath.” The only reason he knew the two beautiful models by name was because they were, in fact, the housemaids. They were paid an extra wage for their time, and Edie knew they both enjoyed being studied at by eyes that often stared at beautiful things. Sometimes they would even ask to keep a drawing for themselves, which Edie was always happy to provide.

Edie shook her head, already dragging her charcoal over fresh bit of parchment. “It was far from lovely. With my dimensions, poor Cath was starting to look like someone held her arms, another her ankles and stretched her out.”

The man sitting beside her laughed. “Goodness, you create quite the picture without much trouble.”

Edith continued her sketch without a reply, pausing once or twice to sip at her wine.

When she was drawing, in the warmth of her uncle’s studio, she felt _free_. She felt at peace, as though her life had not gone awry, as though no one had hurt her. No one stared at her here, and if they did, she hardly noticed. Perhaps her uncle forewarned people before they came the first time, or perhaps they were distracted by the naked bodies of Isabelle and Cath. It made no matter to her.

Here, she was not Edith Granville, the disfigured spinster daughter of a duke. Here, she was only Edie, an artist.

The hour grew late, and before long, Edie was slowly nursing a second glass of wine and staring at a (in her opinion) much better portrayal of Cath and Isabelle. As the hours ticked by, they were joined by a handful of likeminded individuals, from all walks of life who all shared a deep love of the arts. A heavy knock at the door, and her uncle stood from his seat to answer.

It was a man who had come, judging by the deep rumble of the new voice. A moment later, and her uncle reappeared in the arched doorway of the studio, a tall man standing with him.

Carefully withdrawing her charcoal, she glanced up at the two, frowning at the newcomer as he took in the naked beauties posing before him. It took her a moment to finally realize who he was.

When she had still been a sought after beauty, she had seen him at a gathering or two, flanked by his handsome older brother. Every mama in the ton had an eye for the Bridgerton boys, and hers was no exception. Edie could admit, even years later, that the two were very handsome, and she even had hoped to catch their eye and eventually their heart.

A childish dream, but she had been but a child then.

And now Benedict Bridgerton was standing before her seven years later. How wonderfully _droll_.

“I do not know what I was expecting, but surely it was not this.” His voice was gentle, layered thick with wonder.

“Oh, simply a gathering of likeminded souls.” Her uncle shrugged, stepping past him and leading the astonished man further into the room.

“So the pointy critic arrives.” She noted, her eyes flashing over the impeccably well dressed Bridgerton. She could cringe to still hear her mama prattling away in her ear. _Yes darling, don’t forget to mention how wonderful you are at singing, ask him if he should like to hear you, and don’t be afraid to show off your neck, men like a beautiful swan!_

Neither Bridgerton had given her more than a dance at one ball, not that she was terribly heartbroken over it. She had had plenty of gentlemen to dance with.

“I beg your pardon?” He turned to her, and Edie saw it. That first widening of the eyes when they saw her face the first time, covered quickly and poorly. His mouth had opened with shock, but he quickly closed it, so tight that his lips appeared thinner.

The hurt from those first looks was naught but a pinch now.

“You _are_ the Bridgerton boy who had some rather sharp thoughts on my uncle’s latest portrait, correct? I believe it is hanging at Somerset House.”

His blue eyes widened a little. “Oh, I—”

“Allow me to introduce you, Bridgerton.” Henry interjected, patting his niece gently on her shoulder. “My niece, Lady Edith Granville, a fellow artist. Edie, this is Benedict Bridgerton.” 

“Delighted.” She deadpanned, her eyes turning once more to the models. Bridgerton, however, followed her gaze and seemed to remember there were naked women in the room. And she, a gently bred lady, was drawing them.

“Oh, um.” The Bridgerton boy nodded his head, his blue eyes flashing back to rest on her.

The woman frowned openly at the man’s face, astounded at his innocence. “Do you honestly think I don’t see two of these every morning? On my _own_ body, that is.” She asked, gesturing with the end of her brush. The Bridgerton blushed a fine pink colour that she wished to replicate later on, and turned his smile downward, embarrassed.

“Do not mind our Edith.” Uncle Henry advised with a clap to the other man’s shoulder. “She’s become rather feral in her time away from her proper mama and papa.”

At that, Edie growled like a beast at the man who seemed more of a green boy than a seasoned man.

Henry laughed, as did the others in the group, but she locked her eyes on Benedict Bridgerton, believing the poor sod would never last in such a lush environment. He was too…stiff. Too proper. Seven years ago, she might have fluttered her fan and try to entice him, but not anymore. A man with such a face would not look twice at her sweetly.

Edie continued her sketch, focusing the shape of the model’s graceful hands. In her head, she saw a scene from nature, women at one with the elements, the bloom of the earth surrounding them, the sun shining proudly upon the forbidden flesh that men enjoyed gawking at. In her head, she wondered why anyone should be ashamed for admiring the feminine form when it really was so beautiful.

“Have you been here long, Miss Granville?” A voice asked from three spaces down. She looked and saw Mister Bridgerton, his eyes still focused on his work.

She finished a stroke with her charcoal before answering. “Yes, I should think so. If you think seven years is a long time, Mister Bridgerton.”

“Oh.” He raised his brows. They were rather handsome, in her opinion. Thick and dark. “I have never seen you at a ball or a soiree. You’re a duke’s daughter, are you not?”

Edie looked up from her sketch, staring straight ahead, pondering whether Benedict Bridgerton was simple or rude. She settled on simple after a beat, because he seemed far too happy to be in her uncle’s studio to risk it by being cruel to his niece.

“Luckily, Mister Bridgerton, my face permits me to be blessedly absent from such events. If I were to attend, I fear I shall be thrown out for stamping on one too many toes.”

“Don’t let her fool you. She is a wonderful dancer.” A voice called from the other end of the room. Caterina Rossi, a good friend of hers. By daylight, she was a washerwoman, working at her father’s business, but at night, she nurtured a talent that had earned her a place at Henry Granville’s studio. Edie especially loved Cat’s sketches of the day to day toils of the working class. She found them honest and raw.

“And how would you know that, Cat?” she called back, refraining from smiling. When she smiled, her scar ran deeper, so noticeable that it became a valley that split her cheek.

“Cause you taught me how.” She deadpanned back, eyes returning to the models before them.

“ _Please_ , you were leading.” Edie’s eyes flashed up from her work, studying the lay of Cath’s hand on her thigh. “You were a dancer _long_ before me.” She insinuated playfully, her voice flat. To her surprise though, Benedict Bridgerton _laughed_.

After the Incident, people laughed once the shock of it all had faded. Somehow, some of the truly _vile_ and _wretched_ , found the idea of a disfigured lady, barely into her nineteenth year, funny. It was largely due to her status, and the fact that she had been sought by so many promising, handsome suitors, only to have them all flee the moment word came that the Incident had not killed her.

But Benedict Bridgerton’s laugh was not like that. It was warm and pleasant, finding true amusement from her teasing. She fought back another smile and focused on shading in more of Cath’s thigh, trying to match the lighting. 

“So,” Mister Bridgerton spoke after a while had passed, and when she sneaked a peek at his work, she found that he had half of Isabelle’s body sketched out.

“I had heard you were rather a rake.” She commented bluntly, sliding her charcoal gently over the paper. “So I am quite surprised by how uncomfortable you became at realizing I was drawing the female form.” It was curious to her, how a man such as he to become flustered. So she wondered if it was because of her status or her gender.

It took a moment for him to formulate an answer.

“It is most unusual to see a lady of your standing in a place such as this.” He didn’t look up from his sketch.

“And it _isn’t_ for _you_ to be sat here, staring at the housemaid’s naked bodies?” Neither did she, taking another look at the models in question.

“I think it is rather unusual for _anyone_ to be staring at the housemaid’s naked bodies.” He replied, his tone dry.

Edie permitted a small smile to tug her lips. “Indeed. However, Mister Bridgerton, I can assure you my intentions here are purely of the artistic sort. And I am of the firm belief that in the pursuit of capturing beauty and emotion, neither position nor sex should limit one’s talents.”

A long moment passed, and Edie was certain that either the matter was done, or Mister Bridgerton was focused on his work. She then did not see how he had paused his actions to look back at her, a quiet look of surprise on his face.

“Indeed Miss Granville.” He finally said. “I believe we are in agreement.”

“ _Wonderful_ , now my night is complete.” Edie replied sardonically, earning another short laugh from the Bridgerton.


	3. The Companions

“For the last time, the answer, my dear uncle, is no!”

It was a rare enough thing that Edie left the house for an afternoon, and she was starting to feel like once in a blue moon was far too frequent with how her uncle was carrying on. The park was quieter in the evening, so there were fewer eyes to gawk and fewer whispers that were hidden behind fans. Henry Granville had managed to convince his dearest niece to come for a walk with him, to take in and admire the colours of the sunset.

She was blind sighted, quite frankly, when he brought up the topic of suitors. More particularly, _marriage_.

“My dear girl, Lord Ashby is a fine man!” Henry continued on, studying the way his niece turned her face away from him, her scarred part of her face the only part visible. The left side of her face bore the marks of a wretch, but her right still held all the beauty she’d been graced with at birth. And yet, none could see that. “With him, there shall be no urgency for heirs. He has four of them already, all of them well educated and half of them already married. I think the man just longs for companionship.”

“You think the knowledge that man has _four_ sons, all of them _my_ age, would soothe me?” she snapped.

Henry sighed. “I had hoped you would at least think of it.”

“Ohh, I _am_.” She laughed, a hard, bitter sound that twisted her uncle’s heart. “I shall be his _companion_ , as you say, and then, one day, when he eventually dies years before me, I shall be cast out on the street by his sons, for which of them would love me even the _tiniest_ bit to shelter me?” Edie would surely not love the woman who replaced her mother, heaven forbid. “No, and even if I was left something by the old man, where shall I go?”

“Your brothers—” he attempted, but she was too fast with her voice.

“My brothers!…” she sighed then, her heart aching to think of it. “Richie would not have me. He loves his pinch-faced wife too much to tolerate me as she has made it horribly clear she detests my presence. Willie…we both know he would sink if I sought refuge with him. I would be nothing but a burden to him, financially and socially. I will not retreat to him if it means causing him grief.”

He saw her lips tighten, blinking her eyes to rid herself of the tears that threatened to rise. “To me, then.” He said, his voice soft in the way it only was with her. Sometimes, he wondered if this is how being a father felt. “I shall surely outlive your foolish brothers and your dimwitted husbands. You can always run away to me and Lucy too. I’d chew off all my fingers before turning you away.”

She looked at him then, her brows drawn up, her fear clear on her mangled face. Their feet had slowed to a crawl, and when he stopped, he faced her, taking her hands in his.

“ _Husbands_?” she asked, a tiny giggle in the word. Still, her eyes were red.

“Yes, husbands. You think a woman like you would have to suffer with one man the rest of her life?” She released a wet chuckle at that, her hands squeezing his. “And all of them shall be slow and immensely dull.” 

A heartbeat later and Edie moved towards him, her arm wrapping around his back, scarred cheek resting against his shoulder while his own arm wrapped around her shoulders. They continued to walk.

“I would have liked a child or two, but if I am promised to become a notorious widow, I think that trade would be easy to make.” She joked, her heart still heavy. Henry laughed in response.

Truly, he wished so much that he could find a man who would love her past her scars, enough so that he could let her fly away from him, to become the woman she had always wanted to be. Perhaps then, he would not fret for her quite so much. Henry only wanted her happiness, her safety. Lucy, his dearest friend, had found hers at his side, while he had found his own at her side. Love, he believed, could come in so many forms, and if it was not a love match between a man and his wife, why then could it not be a friendship? A companionship?

“And you shall be the most notorious widow in all the land.” He promised, sending a silent prayer to God that she become a happy wife at least once before he was in the grave.

It was not that Sir Henry did not enjoy having his niece in his home. Quite the contrary, he loved the way she filled his home up—with warmth, with her little noises of movement, with her presence. However, he was far too aware that it could not be forever. Already, twenty-six, his dearest niece deserved what she had desired since girlhood—a home of her own, a husband who was warm and kind to her and a family of her own.

Even if Lord Ashby did not provide her with one, he could give her the other two. After all, he was a jolly old fellow, accommodating and not one to complain or jab at shortcomings. He thought Edie could be quite happy with him.

However, Edie was correct in assuming that the lord’s sons would not be quite as happy with _her_.

They walked a little farther on for a time, before Edie ventured to speak again. “Has my papa put this horrid topic into your mind?” Lord Granville had started suggesting potential suitors three years after the Incident. It was an infrequent occurrence that he found someone with wealth, title and kindness to consider his ugly daughter as a wife, and when she flat _refused_ to see any of them, well, Lord Granville had not written to her of marriages for nearly two years. So, it was likely in her opinion, that he had demanded his younger brother to take up the task.

The silence of her uncle was damning. “For goodness sake!” she huffed, rolling her head back in annoyance.

“I admit your papa has written once or twice of it,” Henry spoke in a rush. “But I only suggest Lord Ashby for the sake of your own happiness.”

Edie sighed, annoyed at herself for even asking. “Why is it men think the happiness of a woman is dependant on having a husband?”

“Oh, like I _wasn’t_ there to bear witness at your wedding with the neighbour boy?” Henry smiled teasingly.

“I was a child! I have no control of what I _may_ have done when I was bloody five.” Edgar, was in fact a rather poor husband, in her opinion. Little sod abandoned her not ten minutes after their wedding to play with her brother Richie. “And anyhow, if I an to be married, I would like to find my own husband. That way I shall truly know his character before marching down the aisle.”

“How shall you get to know a man when you chase away any who dare to cross you?” Edie had no reply for that, and the rest of their walk continued in silence.

* * *

The next night found Edie sat in her uncle’s studio, quietly drinking her second glass of brandy.

Tonight featured Isabelle and Cath draped over a lounge, and for an added bit of drama, Henry had laid a blanked lined with rabbit fur down across Cath’s belly.

Unfortunately, the scene did little to rouse her fingers, and so she sat back and drank. Her mind still weighed heavy over thoughts of marriage and Lord Ashby. He was an old man, likely to die in the next handful of years, and somehow he wanted to spend those years with a woman more than half his age. She felt filthy just to think of it, ashamed too.

But more than that…the fact that _only_ seven years ago, she had had at least ten different men vying for a crumb of her attention, and now she was reduced to old men who only wanted her because she was the only one who might have them.

Her uncle had not intended to hurt her, but he had inadvertently reopened a wound that she had decided healed. Edie sighed, downing the last of her drink before rising to seek out the rest of the bottle.

 _Companionship_ , her uncle had called it. She could see the merits of such a union—protection, stability, perhaps an end to the gossip. Perhaps she might even feel better, Thomas Haken now forever removed from her life with a new man on her arm and a household of her own to manage. 

And yet, companionship was not what Edie desired.

Deciding she was far too clear headed for the thoughts swirling through her mind, Edie downed her third glass of brandy quickly, and then filled her glass again.

Her actions caught the deep brown eyes of Caterina, one of the few Edie could safely call her friend.

“What, you think you’re a sailor?” Cat’s voice sounded far too loud for such a small woman, but Edie thought perhaps it was her close proximity. “You’re certainly drinking like one.” There was a spot of charcoal on her cheek, Edie noted with a wave of fondness.

 _Not nearly enough_ , Edie thought as she peered over her friend’s shoulder to see what she was drawing. Cat had taken a focus on the model’s belly, roughly sketching her hands and the fur lined blanket that rested below her navel.

“Rather lewd.” She murmured, taking another drink. Cat grinned impishly, her friend settling down in the seat beside her.

“Lewd is a compliment here.” To Cat, life outside this little haven was so board _straight_. Men and ladies walked about with an air of sophistication and propriety, playing the part of innocence from the Garden. She did not resent it so much as she was curious about it. Why pretend during the day, only to sneak away in the night? She supposed God had a bit to do with it.

“And it was meant as one.” Edith watched quietly as Cat continued her work, watching the rough edges and uneven, overlapping lines become smoother, more refined until a handsome work appeared before her. By then she had already finished off her brandy, her head swimming in a lovely fog. A part of her was tempted to get up and pour another glass, but the last time she had drank more than her share, her uncle told her when she woke up the next day that should she be so tempted again, he would write to her father. And then her father would surely come to London himself to drag her back home.

Henry, she came to realize, had his limits. He might permit her to take a lover, provided nothing more came of it, but he would not abide her drunk.

“What has you so gloomy?” Cat asked after a time, setting down her charcoal to slap the residue from her hands.

Edie did not reply for a moment. Instead, she tilted her face downward to watch her fingers run over the rim of her glass. She could not tell Cat about Lord Ashby’s offer, it felt far too shameful somehow. Speaking of marriages would lead, inevitably, to the man who had made her undesirable to the harshest degree.

But her mouth was moving before she could stop it. In the morning light, she would remember and _swear_ off brandy the rest of her life.

“ _Men_. Men and their faces, and the words they say. Men and their _ideas_ and the way they act. You know, a man once told me he could only stand the look of me in the dark?” Her words were slurred, and the pain that memory held was dull with the drink warming her blood. Cat held her tongue at that. She had known Edith long enough to know that she never spoke of men in her past, for everyone knew of the man who had done that to her face. No one, least of all Edith, wished to tread too close to that memory.

Cat wanted to protect the other woman from it, and so tried to redirect the conversation to safer waters. “My sister once called me a fat sow with bubbies like uneven apples.”

Edie burst out laughing, but quickly clapped her fingers over her mouth to silence herself. “That isn’t funny.” She mumbled. “If you like, I can draw her as a deformed woman-donkey thing.”

Cat giggled. “No, if you do, I should be sorely, _sorely_ tempted to show her. But then papa would know that I’m not sleeping in my bed at night.”

The drunken woman sighed, leaning her body forward to her elbow rested on her knee, letting her head fall into her hand. “Bloody men. Oh, Cat.” She mumbled once more, her glassy eyes turning towards the easel that held proof of Cat's poorly recognized talent.

Edith did not want companionship. Among her many reasons why she thought something as fragile as companionship would be unsuitable for her, the most childish of them that Edith wanted _more_. She wanted affection and warmth and tenderness. An understand that went deeper than convenience, that was stronger than vows sworn in a church.

Even drunk, Edie dare not give a name to what she longed for.


	4. The Party

The following Friday found her in much better spirits.

It had _nothing_ to do with the party her uncle was hosting.

Edie once loved a good ball; loved the gowns, the glinting of jewels in the light, loved the way men and boys asked her (sometimes two at a time) for a dance. She hadn’t been to one in seven years, and it was all too plain that parties hosted by Henry Granville were _not_ the kind she had been permitted to attend when she was nineteen.

The air was hot and humid, much like a summers day that brought blood to the skin’s surface. Once or twice a month, her uncle determined a party was in order, and invited the friends he had acquired throughout the years for a night of cards, dance, drinking and other pleasures that went unsaid in high society.

Before long, Henry’s home was bursting with life and passion, and she knew each attendee was permitted entry by their host personally. Henry did not want tongues wagging, and thereby attracting unwanted attention and putting their happy routine to an end. To boot, it was only polite that the host himself greet his guests at the door.

Edie was not enthralled with the bodies that danced around each other, nor the rumpled appearance of all that were in attendance. Rather, the spirit of the surroundings gripped her, watching as the souls of the room played off each other and shed their fears. She was not a green girl, barely out of her leading strings. Instead, she thought herself well seasoned, and wished to capture the heart of that feeling—the feeling of being a wallflower at Henry’s party, of being an outside observer. Inspiration, sharp and exhilarating erupted from her fingers and she was quick to bring the scene in her head, onto paper. She planned to make it into a painting, filled with swirling colour.

By the time the moon hung low in the dark satin sky, one Benedict Bridgerton arrived at the loud, and busy house.

After being greeted by Henry and left again just as quickly to discover the hidden treasures of the house for himself, Benedict peered into the open drawing room. Men and women played cards at tables dotted about the place, one room seemingly devoted to the dancing of a handful of women without a care about proper decorum or demure grace. Instead, they twirled and writhed and laughed, their skirts and gauze wraps fluttering through the air. Next, he strode towards the studio, further down the corridor, and inside, he found that a male model had taken the housemaid’s place.

He lingered at the doorway a moment, taking in the scene with a happy grin, and his presence was soon noted by the woman sitting on a chair a few feet away.

“Ah, the pointy critic returns for another night of debauchery.”

Turning towards the voice, Benedict’s grin faltered to see Edith sitting there, sketch pad in her lap, her blue eyes trained on the paper in front of her.

“I shall never live that down, will I?” He asked, walking closer. The woman did not seem to like him much, a fact he had concluded moments after meeting her the first time. But it would be rude to not say hello to the hosts niece.

“Never. In fact, I shall go out of my way to remind you each and every time I see you.” A little part of her was tempted to saw off an inch from one leg of each chair in the house, just so he would be so annoyed he would not stay long. But then that would irritate her as well, so she decided it was not a good idea.

“Then I must make every effort to ensure I do not darken your doorway in the future.” He replied, turning his body so he stood next to her, leaning against the wall.

He heard Edith scoff, not looking up from her sketch pad. “You love it here too much.” That first night, she had gone to bed and he had still been labouring away diligently on his sketch. “I am afraid, Mister Bridgerton, you will have to swallow down your suffering and abide my presence for the time being.”

Another moment passed, and Edie let herself to become engrossed with her work once more, certain that Mister Bridgerton would leave for kinder company. “Impressive.” She heard him mumble from behind her ear. Edie flinched forward, fear spiking for a moment before she realized he was only observing her work.

“Thank you.” She murmured back, clearing her throat.

“I enjoy a good country scene, but yours is a rather inviting picture into this life.” He noted, casting his appraising eye across the multitude of characters.

“And what is _this_ life, Mister Bridgerton?” she asked, lifting her gaze to observe the people as well. She saw a few she recognized, some from the higher societal class, a handful of lower born and many more she could not name. But Benedict Bridgerton shone brighter than any of them. “A spectacle for your entertainment?”

 _Dear god,_ he thought, _but she thinks I insult her each time I speak to her._

“I did not mean it that way.” He bit out. “This place, Miss Granville, is free. Open.” A rather lovely blonde strolled past, a soft, sweet smile flashing his way. Benedict’s eyes trailed after her, lips curling up in a smile. “By god, _honest_.” He did not see how Edie’s eyes followed his gaze, her brow rising at his gawking. More and more, the man seemed to be a green lad hardly into manhood. He turned back to her, and not expecting to see her staring at him, he drew back, averting his eyes to the wall behind her so he would not see her scar. “Class does not exist here, the lines that society draws are shadows and expectations are not foisted on people who do not meet them easily.”

For a long moment, she studied his face, eyes narrowing into slits. She found at least two different insults buried in his words, but the longer she considered him, the less she suspected he was trying to dig into her. Still, that did not stop _her_ from shooting a well placed arrow.

“Is that why you are ogling the half-dressed beauties currently strutting like proud peacocks before your soft, innocent eyes?” And his eyes were _so_ soft—blue as hyacinth. She recalled telling her uncle that Bridgeton’s were beautiful, and she was correct.

Her mother had once ushered her towards the eldest Bridgerton brother, whispering that they would make a fine couple, and the young viscount had nodded and made polite conversation with her, and so had his younger brother. It had never been more than a dance or two, moments in public that were between strangers, quickly washed clean when the morning came.

Once, she had thought she and them were equal—similar rank, education, looks, aspirations. But to see one of them standing before her, with all the pain that had been inflicted upon her, bare to see…it made her heart ache, for he brought forth memories and longing from seven years past.

Benedict smiled an awkward smile, but did not answer for a heartbeat. “If I remember correctly, Miss Granville, the last time I was here, you named me a rake. Is it not the characteristic of a rake to gawk at half-dressed ladies?”

Finally, she looked away, the barest hint of a grin pulling at the unmarred side of her face. “ _’Rake’_ is too harsh a word. Truly, I have only named you such based on rumours I have heard about your elder brother. Instead, let me call you a ‘ _typical young man’_. A gentler word, and yet no less accurate when it comes to such private matters.” She kept her eyes on her work.

A grin pulled at Benedict’s mouth after a moment of surprise. She was quick, he realized with wonder. He was not deaf, and so he was familiar with the Tragedy of Edith Granville, but he was not one for gossip. However, living with five females kept him well informed of the rumours about the infamous disfigured spinster, but none had ever said she was witty. _Or that she had talent_ , he thought, casting another look at the sketch she still minded with gentle, barely there strokes of black.

“I am rather shocked that Lady Whistledown has not reported on your sharp wit.” He commented honestly, settling back against the wall. “I daresay I have never been insulted so many times within the first ten minutes of speaking.”

She found no mirth, and tilted her head down farther. “My face outshines my personality, I am afraid. And I do not make a habit out of being noticed, least of all by a gossip monger.” Benedict noted the change immediately, detecting an underlying feeling of annoyance and hostility, masked by her words. “Excuse me.” Without another word, Edie tucked her sketch close to her chest, and melted into the crowd, her dark hair waving down her back.

Benedict blinked. He had thought they were having a pleasant enough conversation, only for her to cut it short, as carefully as a butcher hacking meat from bone. He saw movement from the corner of his eye, and saw Henry Granville approaching him slowly, his arms drawn behind his back, a sly smile on his face. His blue eyes watched where his niece had gone.

“I do not think she likes me.” Benedict spoke. If the niece did not like him, how could he have hope that he would be welcomed back another time? Surely she would have influence on her uncle, and one ill spoken word on his character would bar him from this haven forever.

Sir Henry only grinned, clapping his back. “Edie doesn’t like anyone at first, Bridgerton. Don’t take it too personally.” The older gentleman gestured forward, guiding him into the studio in search of a drink.

* * *

An hour or so later, Edie had snagged a glass of wine and retreated upstairs to her room to set her sketch down, safe from errant drinks flying out of clumsy hands.

Not wanting to retreat to her room just yet, Edie stood by the second floor bannister, her sharp eyes watching the people laughing, drinking, whispering in ears. A little part of her wanted to join the merriment, loneliness tugging against her heart. These sorts of shindigs were not for her. She could shed many layers of the lady she had been raised to be, and yet there were somethings that ran too deep.

So she stood and watched and sipped her drink, and thought about the errands she needed to complete the next day. 

_Can’t avoid mother any longer, going to have to write to her and make up something._ Her mama was a soft woman, and Edie did not want to cause her worry. Edie had taken to exaggerating the frequency of her outings: twice a week became five days a week, a trip to the dressmaker, tea twice a month with friends of Lucy. If it gave her mother any sort of peace, then Edie refused to feel badly for it. She would face god when the time came and when He thundered and scolded her for lying, she would snap right back for sending that monster in her direction.

She also had plans to stop by Cat’s home in the early afternoon and bring her a ice bun for lunch. They often took their lunch behind Cat’s family shop, talking non-stop until Cat’s mother called her to come back in.

Downing the last of her wine, Edie let her hand lay limply over the bannister, glass in hand as she cast another look at the crowd below. She spied a solicitor, a painter, a merchant’s son, and an actress. A trio of ballerinas, the mistress of a lord, a duke, another painter—

Edie stopped short, her eyes narrowing to focus on the couple writhing against each other on the stairs before drawing back, shock written on her face.

Benedict Bridgerton was the tallest of his mother’s brood, and so seeing him shoved against the wall by a lady a head shorter than him was… _something_ to behold.

For a long moment, she was rooted to the spot, staring like a fool at the scene before her. She had not clear view of his face, but she could see how he devoured the woman’s lips with passion, one that she easily matched. When he dragged his lips from her mouth, Edie watched as he mouthed across her cheek and jaw, until his face was buried in her neck, his large hands resting low on her back, keeping her close.

Suddenly, his hands pulled away from her, only to reach up and push away the flimsy white material that covered her shoulders.

Edie whirled around, gasping to realize she had been holding her breath. Swallowing, she stepped away from the bannister and rushed towards her room.

Mister Bridgerton the younger had the wide eyed look of wonder, easily mistaken for innocence, but it was clear enough to Edie that he was not a green lad by any measure.

Quickly, she reached into her pocket and fetched her key, unlocking the door and disappearing inside before anyone could notice. Pressing her back against the door, Edie let her head fall back, trying to calm the racing of her heart. She could not understand _why_ she reacted so to the view she just had, wondering why it both bothered her and intrigued her attention.

She was worldly enough to know it was not something as deep as lust, but neither was it as harsh as loathing. It was something between the two. Something that made her heart pick up speed and her breath come faster, something that made her belly squirm and her skin flush. Something that made it difficult to think of Benedict with his hands all over that lady and yet, impossible to think of anything else.

Edie was not as innocent as the world might think her to be. After the Incident, she had known desire, tasted it on her tongue, though it had not been a pleasant experience.

His name was Hugh, the bastard son of a duke, well liked by his peers but shunned from the ranks of polite society for his illegitimate origins. Easy to like, though his face was not incredibly handsome, and one might say, he was not nearly as comely a woman of Edith’s standing deserved.

Still, a woman as lonely as she, one who felt ugly and unlikable, had clung to the attention he gave her. She liked the affection better than the actual intimacy, finding Hugh’s kisses too rough, too uneven, too wet. His hands never bloody stayed _still_ , either.

She thought suddenly of how Benedict Bridgerton’s hands had seemed quite content on his lover’s hips, trailing up an inch to pull her closer. His large hands, capable of such force, seemed quite gentle.

The woman cleared her throat, ridding herself of the thought.

Edie was arguably one of the ugliest women in the ton, a spinster to boot and so she had not thought another young man would look twice at her. Hugh himself had not soothed that particular wound either, and so she made herself content with him. It was only when she asked him to escort her to the shop for more paints that he revealed himself to be the worst, most _cruel_ sort of wretch that Edie was sad to have given her time to.

Just a week short of a month later, Hugh’s gambling debts had caught up to him, and he was scrambling like a mad man for a ship out of port before his debtors could catch him. Edith did not know what to make of that for no one who loved her ever claimed responsibility for his sudden disappearance, so she let the matter rest, content with it being a long coming strike from fate.

He had been the only man she had allowed close to her since the Incident, and she vowed he would be the last. Yet, her _stupid_ heart started to heal over the last few years since, and now tried to reason that it could survive another heartbreak if the reward was sweet, loving, tender affection. Her heart would be sorely disappointed, because she had no intention of letting herself be vulnerable one more time in her life.

Edith listened to the sounds of the party fade into soft whispers and distant laughter, the sun slowly returning to turn the sky into a lovely, deep blue.

On the nights when gatherings shifted into parties, Edie found sleep impossible to achieve. She could only sleep in silence, and one never knew if a pair of lovers would stumble into her room in search of privacy.

Instead, Edie sketched. She erased, shaded and perfected until she was satisfied, and then continued.

By the time the sun made it’s debut, the sketch was complete, and she was more than ready for sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I am not well versed in the intricacies of British nobility, and because Bridgerton is not entirely historically accurate, I am taking a few creative liberties.  
> 


End file.
